A Warlock's Lair is his Castle
by rumpelsnorcack
Summary: Magnus and Ragnor have a snarky conversation sometime in the seventies. Basically plotless, just lots of their friendship.


**A/N - all of my fandoms from the last year or so have been so tiny or obscure that they don't have a presence on this site, so I've been posting them at AO3. This was with them, but I suddenly realised that this fandom is big enough to have a presence here, so I'm transferring it over. Enjoy a bit of Magnus snarking with Ragnor.**

Ragnor smirked as Magnus shifted position yet again, his pose deliberately designed to look casual and yet betraying to Ragnor exactly how serious Magnus actually was. He huffed out an exaggerated sigh and cast an obvious look in Ragnor's direction. Ragnor hid another smirk behind the newspaper he was reading and very carefully turned a page, his eyes fixed on the print.

Another shift of pose, another affected sigh and sideways glance.

"Hurumph!" Magnus tried, throwing himself backwards on the couch so violently that he almost spilled the drink he was holding.

Ragnor glanced over his newspaper at him, and sniggered at the horrified look on Magnus's face. He hummed gently as Magnus took a hasty sip of the drink as if to apologise to it for almost dumping it on the floor. The look of relief that crossed his face as he tasted the drink was enough to make Ragnor sputter with laughter.

"Spit it out, my friend," he said, finally giving Magnus what he wanted.

"Spit what out?" Magnus widened his exquisitely made-up eyes in feigned innocence and Ragnor groaned. This was why he usually refused to give in to Magnus's theatrics.

"Magnus!" He warned. "Don't make me use my magic. I'm older than you, and we both know I can tie you in knots."

"Spoilsport." But Magnus's voice was fond.

"Always. Now, spit."

"Do you find mundanes are getting more, well … mundane?"

Ragnor blinked, taken aback by the question. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, there used to be a degree of respect, you know? There were traditions, and the mundanes upheld them."

"Traditions? Magnus, are you feeling okay? Since when did tradition matter to you?"

Magnus muttered something nearly unintelligible under his breath, and Ragnor felt his own eyes widening.

"Your lair? Did I hear you right?"

"They called it a loft!" For once, the perfect poise that Magnus affected at all times slipped, and his voice came out as an outraged squeak as he said the last word. The nonchalant stirring of his drink, which he had taken up once he'd been assured he hadn't lost it to the floor, became much more aggressive, too. "My lair is not a loft."

The disdain with which he proclaimed the word was so pronounced that Ragnor sniggered.

"Technically it is a loft, actually," he said, causing Magnus to glare at him.

"Don't get technical with me," he snarled, but with a smile behind his words. "There was a time, and not so long ago either, when people respected a good warlock and his lair. They didn't come in to your home, wander round the place, go 'hey man, nice loft' and poke around in your cupboards. No, they quivered in fear and they would never think to enter without permission."

Ragnor gaped at Magnus. He looked … actually, he looked very serious. This was no laughing matter to him, no matter how light the tone was. Ragnor's brows creased in confusion.

"You want mundanes quivering in fear?"

"Well, no. But the point stands, Ragnor."

"I'm not certain I follow you, my dear friend. You may need to be a little less cryptic."

"I'm not being cryptic! I was perfectly clear."

"Magnus, I'm an old man. Please take pity on my ancient brain and spell it out."

Magnus sighed, downed his drink in one final gulp, and threw his head back against the couch cushions.

"There used to be a certain mystique around us, you remember? People believed in magic, not just downworlders and shadowhunters. Everyone did. People knew we were warlocks and they … "

"Those were some trying days, though, my friend. It seemed every second person was denouncing us for witchcraft. You remember that rather sallow young woman in New England? She gave it a jolly good go."

Magnus snorted at the memory. "As if they could ever catch us," he said with another fond smile. "We were always far too accomplished for them."

"That's not exactly my point," Ragnor said, allowing his exasperation to bleed into his voice.

"I know," Magnus said, giving Ragnor what he clearly believed was his most winning smile. "I just wish it wasn't so necessary to hide. I remember when I was just a spry young thing of a hundred or so years. You didn't need to glamour your demon marks to go out back then."

"To be fair, you don't need to glamour them now. I've seen how people fawn over your 'amazing contact lenses' and glamourous style." Ragnor tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. His own marks were so much harder to pass off as an interesting new fashion.

Magnus had the grace to blush. "I know I should be grateful, but …" he sighed.

"But someone called your lair a loft and it offended your delicate sensibilities."

"A warlock's lair is his castle, Ragnor. It deserves a bit of respect, a bit of fear." Magnus's voice was again serious, with none of his usual flirty, bantering tone. His fixation on this worried Ragnor; this sort of thing usually made Magnus roar with laughter, not look so … so, not-Magnus.

"It's just a place to live, Magnus."

Ragnor almost laughed out loud as Magnus's face twisted in confused disgust. He looked so affronted at the very idea.

"To you maybe a lair is just a … place." Magnus's mouth twisted a little on the word as he looked around Ragnor's living room and shuddered. "I mean, this isn't exactly top of the line, is it? How do you live like this?"

"I get by," Ragnor said drily. "Most of my guests aren't as rude as you, and I like it like this."

"You love me really," Magnus said with a coy grin and Ragnor rolled his eyes.

Suddenly Magnus brightened. "Maybe I could redecorate? I could go really old school. You know, dungeon aesthetic. Dark, damp, a little mysterious and a bit terrifying. Black and grey, a few rocks maybe." He took a deep, satisfied breath before turning to look at Ragnor.

"Oh please," Ragnor finally sputtered when he got his breath back. "As if you could live without glitter somewhere."

"Oh, there'd be glitter. What do you think my glorious body is for?" Magnus said, with close to his old smirk.

"Of course you would," Ragnor said, smiling at his old friend.

"Hey! This is the seventies. Glitter is almost a prerequisite." Magnus indicated his very flashy outfit. In true Magnus style, it was covered in as much glitz as he could muster – the white sequins on his shirt glinting in the late afternoon sun, and the shiny green accents almost enough to blind a man whenever he moved too quickly.

"This decade does feel particularly suited to your tastes."

"And I know you – you're dying for it to end so you can cover your body in something bland and boring."

"You know me too well. I can only hope that in the eighties mundanes will favour something a little less garish."

"Oh, I hope not," Magnus said, genuine sadness in his voice. "What fun would that be? Maybe I should give them a little push. You know … aim for something bright and cheerful for once. Why is fashion never bright?"

Ragnor grinned. "Only you, Magnus." He stood and held his hand out for Magnus's glass. "Another drink? Something sparkly this time, maybe?"

Magnus nodded, and Ragnor headed to the drinks cabinet, thankful his back was now turned from Magnus. He was concerned about his old friend, though his mood seemed to have lightened. Magnus didn't usually get this upset about the way mundanes behaved. Wondering if this was a delayed reaction to his thing with Camille, who Magnus was still not over despite his protestations to the contrary, Ragnor vowed to keep a better eye on him over the next few years. A maudlin warlock was a problematic warlock, and one as powerful as Magnus could become a real issue if he lost control of his emotions and allowed himself to slip into despair.

Ragnor turned, smiling, and handed Magnus his drink. Magnus appeared to be back to his usual self, but the memory of his worries about his lair lingered. Ragnor hoped he would keep the bright airy loft he currently favoured. The dungeon sounded rather terrible, and not at all the sort of thing Magnus would actually like.

As if to punctuate the thought, Magnus sniggered. "Loft!" he said, snorting. "Why would anyone call a lair a loft? The word even sounds stupid. Loft, indeed."

Ragnor breathed a sigh of relief as his friend settled into his usual playful mood. Maybe he'd be fine after all.


End file.
